Comrade
by The Pudding Fiend
Summary: “We’ve been friends forever. Don't you remember, Pyotr? You promised to protect me.”


DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia, but I've got me some buono tomatoes!

Takes place during WWII, I guess. I'm really not sure about the history, though (sorry if I get it wrong). I know absolutely nothing about guns, so I just gave Russia a pistol.

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Pyotr hunched behind the partially destroyed wall, breathing heavily. He clutched his gun to his thin chest, shivering. He flinched, hearing the loud bangs of gunfire. He hated this, hated it so much. He just wanted to go home, back to the farm, back to his family. It had been hard there, working from dawn to dusk for measly results, but anywhere was better than here. Here, with the sweet stench of death and the constant noise, even chasing him in his sleep.

He clenched his teeth. No, dammit, he wasn't going to die! Not like this! Pyotr scrambled to his feet, throwing a glance around the wall to check if it was safe. He sped up to a run, ignoring the shouts and screams behind him. He was going home, where at least he could do some good, rather than just sit out here like a pig waiting for slaughter.

He ducked into a thin copse of trees. He leaned against a thin, spindly looking tree, trying to catch his breath. He looked back quickly over his shoulder. The battlefield noises had dimmed slightly, the soldiers appearing smaller in the distance. Pyotr breathed a sigh of relief, loosening his grip on his gun. He slid down, letting his weapon fall from his grip.

"привет."

Pyotr gasped, attempting to stand while fumbling with his gun. He whipped around, finally having gotten a hold of his gun. The quiet greeting had come from a young man standing slightly behind him. The man was quite tall and strongly built, although his face was childlike in that it still possessed a degree of baby fat. His platinum-blonde hair was so fair that it looked as if it was made of snow; his eyes were an odd shade that looked…purple. Nobody had purple eyes, did they? The man was smiling pleasantly, looking as if he were simply taking a nice jaunt in the woods rather than nearly being in the heart of a battle zone.

"What are you doing here? It's dangerous!" The tall man seemed to echo Pyotr's earlier thoughts. "There's a battle going on, you know." He peered closer at Pyotr. "Ah! You're a soldier, aren't you?" He cocked his head to the side, reminding Pyotr of his dog Vladmir. "Why aren't you fighting?"

"I-I'm not fighting anymore!" Pyotr stumbled back a step, still holding his gun to the strange man's face. Something disturbed Pyotr about the man, despite his amiable appearance. "This war is pointless! I'm not going to waste any more my time shooting at people!"

"You're deserting?" The pleasant smile slipped a little, before reforming. "That's no good. Aren't you going to fight for your country, Pyotr?" He reached into his coat pocket.

Pyotr blanched, backing up further. "H-How do you k-know my name?"

The man smile widened, withdrawing a pistol from his pocket. "I know all of my people's names. And you, Pyotr…I'm very disappointed in you." He pointed the gun at Pyotr. "I can't have weaklings like you in my country."

"No! Stop!" Pyotr dropped his gun, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Who are you?!"

The man laughed, somehow combining the innocent laughter of a child with the maniacal laughter of the condemned. "Oh, Pyotr! Don't tell me you don't recognize me! You've known me your whole life!" He pulled the trigger. Steam rose as the snow slowly blended with blood.

"We've been friends forever. Don't you remember, Pyotr? You promised to protect me."

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By the way, привет is apparently pronounced "priv-yet" and is an informal way of saying "hello" in Russian. Yes, Russia is completely bat-shit crazy (I've always wanted to say that) and he scares me. He's kind of cool, though, in a really creepy way.


End file.
